


That Which We Conceal

by a_sparrows_fall



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Baptism of Fire, Developing Friendships, M/M, Nudity, Pining, Pregnancy, Regis & Milva BROTP origin story, Secret Crush, Secrets, Unrequited Crush, Vampires, book fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 05:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12720315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_sparrows_fall/pseuds/a_sparrows_fall
Summary: He paused a moment, choosing his words carefully."Your situation has not escaped my notice,” he said after some deliberation.While journeying with Zoltan and the Termerian refugees, Regis discovers Milva’s secret. In return, Milva does some investigation of her own. Geralt nearly loses his medallion, and Regis is surprised in several ways.A story set duringBaptism of Fire.





	That Which We Conceal

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Dordean](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean) for the beta and the many squeeful notes, and [kaeltale](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale/pseuds/kaeltale) for the research help and encouragement!

Human beings, like higher vampires, varied tremendously from individual to individual in a number of ways.

The Humanist’s teachings were the initial inspiration for Regis’s change of heart after his lengthy regeneration, but it was humanity itself, its extraordinary capacity for uniqueness, that eventually drew him on to become a surgeon.

Even with each soul constrained only to a single physical form, humans were, taken as a whole, fascinating; said form was capable of manifesting in a dazzling array of combinations, each with its own rhythms and quirks, strengths and weaknesses.

That said, over a great deal of time spent both consuming research and observing patients first hand, Regis knew there were general patterns and processes common to all.

Of course, there was one specific bodily function Regis was—perhaps awkwardly, though sometimes usefully—attuned to in humans. In women, to be precise.

If he was honest with himself, he knew the truth of the matter within days of their departure from Fen Carn.

But biological variations being what they were, he waited for additional evidence.

At two weeks, he still managed to suspend his considerable disbelief—he hadn’t been a part of their group for what amounted to a full cycle; it was possible, if not terribly likely, that his timing was simply off.

Having marked four weeks traveling with the group, Regis had to give credence to what he knew—what he _smelled_ —from the very first.

Milva hadn’t had her courses for the whole of their journey together.

Moreover, she had begun to segregate herself not long after dawn, a moment of privacy in which she could be ill away from the others—though not out of range of Regis’s ultra-sensitive hearing. He was honestly surprised that Geralt hadn’t picked up on it yet.

Assembling the evidence, he gathered she was about six weeks along—maybe eight, certainly less than twelve.

It was not the first time Regis had been cursed with an overabundance of knowledge, but it was the most immediate, and it did present him—and their entire band, in fact—with something of a problem.

When was she going to broach the subject with the rest of them, and where would they be at the time? What was her plan, and how best could they help her?

It was a delicate matter, to be certain, and while of course it went without saying that the fate of Milva’s child was governed entirely by her choice, her status—whatever it ended up being—would affect their itinerary and travel speed considerably.

He needed to discuss it with her—nearly wished he’d had the courage to do so already.

But conversations initiated with _I couldn’t help but notice your lack of menstrual bleeding_ tended to include a number of distressed questions, and things generally proceeded downhill from there, even when the participants involved were merely average humans.

He could only imagine how much worse it would be with a witcher in the mix.

Although... Not just any witcher, it seemed.

He had been acquainted with few monster slayers in his long life, all things considered, and those he _had_ met… Those encounters had taken place on the far distant shores of his past, a place he had no desire to revisit.

Even so, he didn’t suppose that in the intervening time the aims of _all_ witchers had bent toward the protection of refugees and the rescue of young girls.

He was beginning to the draw the conclusion that Geralt was one of a kind.

For a start, Geralt was much, much more clever than he let on. Regis wondered if it was something taught to young witchers —this concealment of their talents and their passions, the cold and professional persona they developed in dealing with their clients—or if it was a skill Geralt specifically had honed through his own experiences on the edges of humanity. Regardless of the origin of the deception, it was clear almost immediately that Geralt was not the mindless sword swinger he wished everyone to see him as.

Regis had been making a study of him, at first out of simple curiosity—whenever else, he reasoned, would he have such an opportunity to observe a witcher up close?

He tested Geralt’s knowledge on a number of topics, peppering him daily with questions about everything under the sun, and the witcher always had a rejoinder—if not commentary that revealed a knowledge of the subject at hand, then at least a thoughtful question that stimulated Regis’s own expertise. Often, he noticed, it was accompanied by an eyebrow quirking in skepticism, or a scarred cheek twisting upward in a grin—hardly the marks of a man bereft of all emotion.

Regis’s fascination only grew when he started to piece together that, for some time, Geralt's profession had been more that of a guard—a keeper of the peace between humans and non-humans, or factions of humans warring against themselves—rather than a slayer of unnatural creatures.

It was no more than a tiny spark of hope, like an ember he was shielding from an angry wind, but the possibility remained alight in his mind all the same: if it was his own aim to live as a Humanist, then maybe Geralt could yet prove to be… well, to put a term to it, a Monsterist.

The question was, then—as always—how and when to fan the flame without getting burnt.

He had revealed his true nature only a few times before; he was friends with the druids of Caed Dhu and a few open-minded Aen Seidhe, but that was the extent of it.

Regis wasn’t sure how Geralt might react. He did seem like the sort of man who realized that not all of one’s problems could be fought off with a silver sword.

But he’d seen Geralt in the throes of the occasional outburst, too—the witcher was no more immune to his softer emotions than he was to his more fiery ones.

Hopefully he would prove amenable to reason when he found out—well, at least Milva’s secret, if not his own.

In the meantime, something had to be done.

* * *

They stopped for the evening near a bend in the Chotla, where an outcropping of boulders nestled in the river acted as a barrier, impeding the rapids and forming a natural alcove, a small freshwater harbor of sorts that was both deep and still.

Just past the river, the land sloped downward into a glade; copious herbivore tracks in the earth seemed to signify it as safe place to camp for the night, doubly convenient in that it included a vast flat area for the women and children to settle in and rest.

The other men of the group were seated on a downed tree trunk, cards placed before them. Geralt was giving Dandelion some tips on how to improve his Gwent game, the troubadour currently facing off against Zoltan. Sighing and making a show of acting affronted with every piece of proffered advice, Regis couldn’t help but overhear that Dandelion eventually proceeded to make every move the witcher suggested.

Milva was seated at the top of the incline, overlooking the river. Firebugs had begun to appear around her, blinking against a blanket of azure, making the archer look as though she was suspended in the air, adorned in a cloak of living stars.

She looked peaceful—as peaceful as she ever did these days.

It seemed as good a time as any to tackle the disagreeable topic.

Making his way up the hill, Regis extracted an item from his bag before taking a seat beside her.

He handed her a small glass cylinder of yellow-beige powder without turning in her direction. She glanced down at it momentarily, accepting it before looking back at the river.

“Ginger root,” he said by way of explanation. “It helps, if you’re feeling poorly. Also, I can make doubly sure we have an adequate supply of potable water at all times. Dehydration can be a significant contributor to the nausea.”

Milva spun to face him with such speed that her long red plait, trailing behind the arc of her movement, nearly hit her in the face. “Who says I’m nauseous?”

Regis sighed.

“Milva. You don’t have to hide.”

He paused a moment, choosing his words carefully.

"Your situation has not escaped my notice,” he said after some deliberation.

The archer scowled at him, her ginger brows settling at a sharp decline.

“How did you—?! Have you been messing with my things, spying on me?”

“Not at all,” he tried to reassure her. “In the mornings, you’ve secluded yourself, and I noticed you’ve been less keen to help Geralt and Zoltan polish off the last of the mandrake I brought with us.”

“ _Noticed,”_ she sneered, hostile. _"_ Going to tell me you noticedmy 'time of the moon', too, I bet.”

“Well.” Regis let his head waggle slightly from side to side, considering. "I do track the lunar cycle with some reliability,” he said, not untruthfully.

She looked as though she was on the point of whipping the bottle angrily back in his face and leaving… but instead, she rolled her eyes and let a heavy sigh escape her lips.

“You’re a nosy bugger, aren’t you?” she asked, letting her gaze shift once more to the river before them.

“It’s not so unusual a thing for a doctor to be. Nosy, I mean.” He watched bubbles rise to the river’s surface as a fish darted by, and pointedly ignored her secondary descriptor of him. “Nor for a friend who cares about you and your safety.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of her mouth turning up just for a second, a reflex, before she let her expression turn sour again.

Drawing her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them, making herself into a ball: withdrawn, protected.

She wouldn't be able to do that in a few months time, depending on how she decided to handle things.

“You’re not going to ask about the father?” she said, voice just above a whisper.

“Do I need to?” Regis queried seriously. “Is there some medical reason I should?”

Milva shook her head, fiercely, likely not in response to his question so much as a means of letting a wave of dissatisfaction roll through her: a confined creature trying to shake away its shackles.

She growled at him like one, too. “If you tell the others, I swear, barber, you’ll wake up with half a quiver of arrows in your back.”

He smiled, not only at Milva’s unsubtle threat, but also because he _would_ wake up from such a situation, and that was another thing he couldn't readily explain to his companions.

“It’s completely confidential for now.”

She frowned, glancing to him. “For now?”

“At some point,” he told her slowly, “you’ll have to make some choices, and—“

She fluttered an impatient hand in his direction. “Yes, yes, all right. You’ll… tell me? When I have to—?”

Regis quickly performed a mental inventory of the provisions he had with him—greater burdock, wormseed, root of bitter melon—and considered what he could prescribe her at the latest possible moment to cause the least amount of damage to her system, should it come to that.

“Speaking only clinically, the sooner you come to a conclusion, the better,” he advised her with all due caution. “But don’t mistake my practitioner's concern for a lack of empathy,” he added hastily. “I realize a decision of this enormity should not and cannot be rushed.”

Raising her chin suddenly, Milva laughed.

“You and your fifty oren words, Regis!” She shook her head once more, letting the smile on her face linger this time. “You could’ve just said, ‘quick as you like, but have a think on it first.’”

For once rather glad to be the butt of one of Milva’s jokes, Regis returned her grin.

“Does that sound like something I would say?”

“I suppose not,” she admitted. "Who _are_ you, Regis?” Her eyes narrowed to slits. "And why the hell are you here with us?”

"Is it too much to presume that I simply enjoy your company?”

“ _Yes._ ” She was adamant, and not at all deterred by that excuse, even if there was some truth in it.

It was, of course, not the _only_ truth of the matter, and Regis realized with a creeping dread that she knew that, too.

"You’re hiding something, barber. And I’m going to find out what it is."

* * *

The predawn light, scattered through a haze already on its way to lifting, saw Regis deep in thought, his mind entirely occupied with a new project.

His supplies being limited to what he could fit in a few small pouches, he wasn’t sure he’d meet with any great success in its creation, but the specter of failure had never dissuaded him from undertaking experimental ventures before; this was no time to suffer a reversal of the stubbornness that had accompanied him throughout his life thus far.

Zoltan, Dandelion, and Milva were all sound asleep, as were their charges. Sweet little snores escaped the open mouths of the children cradled in their likewise dozing mothers’ arms. Even the horses were quiet. He didn’t see Geralt, but that was no great wonder: the witcher had let slip that he’d been visited by odd dreams of late, and—when not on guard duty—had taken to sleeping further away from rest of the group, not wishing to disturb anyone should he awaken with a shout in the night.

Regis crept away from their encampment, careful not to interrupt anyone’s well-earned slumber, finding a secluded spot further up the Chotla to settle in and work.

The idea he had was simple enough, and had been inspired by the previous evening’s conversation with Milva: the streams and rivers that meandered the countryside provided them with an abundant source of water, true, but its quality, its cleanliness—especially in proximity to villages and military encampments—could be highly suspect, and boiling only removed organisms from the water, not chemical compounds.

So, to that end and others: a portable system for water purification. Milva might need to be particularly wary of both the possibility of infection _and_ contact with toxic substances in the coming months, but truthfully the uses of uncontaminated water were endless. He could think of nothing that would not be improved by it, from cooking, to witcher potions, to—should he have the opportunity to indulge in that particular hobby again—the use of it as a base for his distillates.

He couldn’t claim that his aims were entirely altruistic: this particular invention also had value as a distraction.

Primarily one for Milva: he did hope to both put her off his (literal and figurative, he supposed) scent, and to encourage her with the knowledge that carrying the child to term was a viable option if she wished it.

That said, if the task at hand proved diversionary for himself as well, it would be a most welcome change. Certain stubborn thoughts had taken up residence in his head of late; the rigor of scientific study seemed as good a way as any of turning them out.

It seemed an excellent solution for everyone involved.

He had brought with him a few chemical mixtures he thought would be useful in the initial trials, as well as some reactive agents to determine the efficacy of the concoctions. Setting up some small beakers and beginning to measure ingredients, he set to work.

Only a handful of combinations into his session, Regis realized he’d forgotten the element he’d wanted to try most: dark metallic crystals suspended in a solution, isolated from an earlier experiment. He’d have to return to the camp to retrieve it.

The morning fog had receded almost entirely, but the sky was still overcast, giving the area a sort of purple glow.

He kept his eyes on the ground as he rounded the river’s bend, arriving at the deepwater alcove. He’d heard a bit of splashing from the area earlier, but had paid it little mind, his thoughts mired in measures and figures. Whatever creature had visited their serene little glade seemed to be long gone; nothing disturbed the waters or the surrounding trees now.

Something caught his eye just before it snagged on his feet—a bundle of cloth. No, a shirt.

And just beyond it, the hilt of two swords, protruding from beneath a crumpled pair of leather trousers.

Regis stopped.

It was true that he had a vast and deep knowledge of human behavior, their physiological limits and capabilities, so they rarely surprised him.

But two things struck him as he looked back to the river with some urgency, peering into the water’s depths.

One: witchers were not quite human, and two: he had no idea how long they could hold their breath.

He spotted the luminous shape, first distorted below the surface, then growing rapidly larger and brighter and nearer, gliding into the shallows a stone’s throw from his feet, the sharp angles of limbs and a torso becoming suddenly defined.

He had exactly enough time to take two precarious steps backward from the river’s edge before the glassy surface of the water exploded into a thousand nacreous crystals, propelled in every direction.

Long tendrils of bone white hair slashed the air, scattering more droplets in a wild arc before landing with wet slap against infinitely broad shoulders.

Raised up on gloriously corded arms, one hand, possessing long, thick fingers, slid over a face with shuttered eyelids, brushing back the thin sheen of water there, sending it cascading away.

Trailing the path of the glistening rivulets jealously, Regis let his gaze, too, drip languorously over the exposed weave and weft of defined axial muscle: abdominal hills and valleys, framed by lean obliques, tapering into a devastatingly defined iliac furrow. Everything below that perilous V-shape was tantalizingly—perhaps thankfully—obscured by the river.

Scar-gilded, slick, shiny in the silver dawn light, Geralt was _perfect_. Regis couldn’t have looked away if he tried.

 _The witcher, resplendent_ , he thought, quite involuntarily.

Draining the dregs of his self-possession, Regis yanked his focus back up to Geralt’s face in time to lock eyes with honey-colored ones widening in recognition, pupils pulled to a taut black line in the glow of the rising sun.

“Oh, shit,” Geralt startled, clearly not expecting company any more than Regis had been.

But the exclamation was followed immediately by an impossibly soft laugh and a half-grin to match it. “Hey, Regis. Morning,” he said pleasantly, absolutely unruffled.

He didn’t move to cover himself any more than the water already did, didn’t tense a muscle, apparently completely at ease with his nakedness in front of the barber-surgeon, which filled Regis with both relief and a perverse sort of disappointment at once.

_I don’t unnerve him in the slightest._

_That’s a_ good _thing,_ he attempted to remind himself.

“Didn’t know you were up,” Geralt said, eyes going a bit squinty as he studied Regis. “You can be damn quiet when you want to, can’t you?”

It took a moment for Regis to remind himself of the existence of his old friend, the spoken word. 

“I, ah.” His lip trembled, once, then a second time as he drew a breath much deeper than he strictly needed. “I suppose I can,” he agreed mindlessly.

Geralt raised his right hand, opening his palm slightly, revealing something dark and metallic: his wolf’s head medallion, its chain looped around his wrist.

“Don’t normally go diving at dawn, but I nearly lost the damn thing while I was washing up,” he admitted, a rare note of sheepishness in his voice. “Glad the current’s not very strong here. Probably should’ve taken it off altogether before getting in the water, but…” he shrugged, slipping the chain over his head, the medallion setting over his sternum, its crisp points echoing the starburst shape of a scar etched into his right pectoral.

( _That’s an_ excellent _focal point—think of the traumatic injury behind such a—no, do_ not _look any lower—for gods’ sake, don’t look at his—_ )

“I’d rather have _some_ warning in case I run into a Vypper looking to have witcher for breakfast,” Geralt explained.

The brazen reply slipped out from Regis’s mouth before he could stop it: “Fought a lot of monsters naked, have you?”

 _All right, a little on the nose_. But Regis’s tongue was frequently as sharp as his teeth, if not sharper, and the lack of banter would have been more of a dead giveaway than the presence of it.

At least, that was what he tried to tell himself, forcing a smile, phenomenally appreciative of the fact that vampires were incapable of blushing.

Geralt chuckled. “Not lately. But I’d be happy to keep it that way. Hey, would you mind—?”

He took half a step forward and raised his hand, extending a finger at Regis.

To his credit, Regis’s vision was only snared for half a second by the lilting curves of Geralt’s— _bloody gods_ —well-developed biceps brachii before he realized that the witcher was not pointing at him, but behind him, at a gray towel.

“Oh, of course.”

Gratefully, yet painfully, Regis turned away to collect the cloth, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on its fibrous texture as he handed it back to Geralt.

“Thanks,” the witcher said, shaking out the towel in front of him.

Regis heard the water slosh obscenely as Geralt made his way to the river’s edge, and for a panic stricken moment, he was unable to decide if it was more telling to stare ahead or look away; indecisively, he half-glanced in the direction of the hill leading to the encampment, as if he’d heard a noise in that direction, and let his eyes go unfocused as Geralt emerged from the water, taking his damned sweet time in sweeping the towel over his person before fastening it about his waist.

Not that not seeing the act made it any less vivid in Regis’s mind: the water splashing up, coating the witcher’s thighs, droplets clinging needily to his skin. His unappareled hips shifting in their taunting gait, the clever curve of his ass as he stepped up onto the bank—

Yes, he decided belatedly, looking away was probably worse.

Attempting something like subtlety and fairly certain he was missing the mark, Regis pulled his ever-present satchel further in front of his person—in front of his crotch, specifically—began pawing through its contents, digging around, looking for nothing at all.

“Well,” he addressed Geralt, looking him in the face again once he was reasonably sure the witcher had covered his nethers, “I’ll just let you—”

“Regis,” Geralt halted him with the gravity of his voice. “Is everything all right with Milva?”

“What?” _Oh hells._ If it wasn’t one thing—

“You two talked last night." Geralt made a face that said he was more than a little skeptical of Regis’s seeming lack of awareness. “Is she okay?”

The image of Milva’s quiver was plain in his mind; if he gave up her secret this quickly, she might decide to use the _whole_ of it.

Regis gestured noncommittally. “I was merely telling her about some... herbal remedies. For. Dyspepsia. She’s been—”

_No, that’s skirting too close to the truth—_

But he found himself rescued by Geralt’s assumptions.

“—yeah. So has Dandelion. Maybe let him know, too. If we all have to hear him wax lyrical about the contents of his stomach…” Geralt frowned. “Let’s just avoid that if we can.”

Geralt knelt beside his things—and hissed, doing a poor job of hiding the wince that followed. Regis took a step in his direction, reaching toward him in concern.

“What is it?”

“My damned knee.” He shook his head, teasing fingers through his hair and pulling it back into its leather lace restraint, showing off the broad expanse of his chest in doing so . “I know you said no painkillers, but is there anything… I don’t know, herbal? Or…something else you’d recommend?”

He stood, slipping his shirt over his head, evidently not nearly as concerned as Regis about the ever slipping position of the towel on his hips.

Biting the lining of his cheek, Regis reprimanded himself. _This is absurdly unprofessional. Your friend requested your help. Bring your brain back to the task at hand._

Regis gestured to the river. “Hmm. I assume the water was cold—“

Apparently determined to thwart the better angels of Regis’s nature, Geralt smiled impishly. “Was it _that_ obvious?”

“ _No—_ ” Regis protested. “Nonono—”

Geralt laughed at him. “Relax, I’m joking."

So much for professionalism.

“Ah.” Regis shrugged his shoulders and tried to settle himself firmly— _no, best not to think of firmness_ —in a medical state of mind. “It’s not a bad start, necessarily. A dip in the cold river, I mean. The lowered temperature _would_ reduce inflammation. But this long after the initial injury, it’s also likely to induce stiffness—“ — _shit, don’t say stiffness_ — “—in the joints, which you may like to avoid."

While there had never been a recorded case of a higher vampire being truly slain by a witcher, Regis suddenly surmised there was some truth in the human adage about there being a first time for everything.

Nodding along as he continued to dress, Geralt pulled on his trousers beneath the towel.

“There’s some debate on the usefulness of cupping,” Regis babbled, barely even hearing his own words. “It’s possible certain muscle relaxation techniques—the application of constant pressure in—” 

Geralt pulled the towel away, tying off his breeches, a patch of pale belly skin momentarily exposed.

“—ah, _precise locations_ , may be beneficial. Not to the injury site itself, but to the surrounding musculature, which might be… overcompensating for…"

Geralt smirked. “The point, Regis. Coming to it anytime soon?” 

Unceremoniously, he slid a hand over the front of his trousers and adjusted himself before fastening his belt.

“ _Massage_ ,” Regis blurted out, “could have a positive effect.”

Geralt looked thoughtful, incredulous at such a suggestion’s effectiveness... then grimaced again as he lowered himself to sitting, appearing to reconsider.

“That,” he grunted, focusing on the boot he was sliding on, “something you could do for me?”

Oh _gods_. No. (Yes.) No no _no_.

“Only in theory,” Regis’s entirely too helpful mouth supplied. “I’ve read a few instructive texts—but I’ve never—not on a… patient.”

It was all too clear Geralt was favoring his left leg when he stood again. “If you ever feel like trying it out,” he offered lightly, shrugging on his sword belt, “I’m game.”

Something about Geralt’s resounding nonchalance doused Regis’s heart in a chilly dampness, as if he was the one exiting a freezing river.

In a way, he was almost glad of it.

He turned to go without another word.

“Regis?”

“ _Yes_ , Geralt?” he said, spinning on his heel yet again, trying to smooth out the scowl in brow—likely with all the success he’d had trying to calm other visceral reactions in his person.

Geralt frowned. “Are _you_ feeling all right? You’re not, ah… dyspeptic?”

Regis smiled with a closed mouth, his mask now fully back in place.

“Never better,” he assured the witcher quietly.

* * *

Regis did not take his place near the front of the convoy that day, riding near Geralt as he typically did, preferring to bring up the rear, lagging behind even the Temerian refugees.

While he was fairly certain Geralt hadn’t mentioned their encounter to anyone else (why would he? It had clearly been such a non-event for him), Regis didn’t wish to be reminded of it any more than necessary.

They were a handful of hours into the day’s travel when Milva raised her voice enough to have it carry the length of the caravan. “‘Scuse me, lads, have to attend to a thing or two.”

The entire train slowed. Slipping off her stallion and handing the reins to Dandelion, she walked with some haste into the woods to relieve herself.

To Regis, it was blindingly obvious that she’d begun to increase the frequency with which she had to slip away. It had to be a matter of time before the others noticed it, too.

Perhaps he should check on her.

“As long as we’re stopped,” Regis called up to the others, and followed her into the trees.

He was several hundred yards from the caravan, and he hadn’t lost her scent, but she was still evading his sight—very few people could do that, and Regis, unfortunately, was travelling with two of them.

“HA!”

Elf-like, Milva appeared from behind a tree trunk, then slumped against it, looking entirely self-satisfied. “Ha. Ha. _Ha_.”

He found himself quick to want to dismiss her attitude as some childish whim, but the cold that had swept over him before leaving Geralt at the riverside lingered in his chest; something about her manner made it throb again now.

“Something amusing?”

Her eye had a wicked glint in it.

" _Your situation_ ,” she told him, trying her best to mock his manner of speaking, “ _has not escaped my notice.”_

_Damn._

He mentally catalogued what he could have given away in the past twelve or so hours. He’d barely seen her since their awkward conversation the previous evening. She _had_ spotted him near the river just prior to their leaving, as he tried in vain to recoup some of his time working on his invention, but—

The river alcove. The still waters. His reflection, or lack thereof. She must have seen.

Flying twenty steps ahead, he was already damning himself for the amount he’d have to hypnotize her. It was either that, or use the bargaining chip of her being expectant: threaten to reveal it to the others, force her to leave the group. Neither prospect was anything short of nauseating.

 _Damn it all_. It wasn’t fair to her. He promised himself, no more mesmerism at all, except in the case of certain medical procedures, but—he should’ve been more careful—

No, he shouldn’t never have left Fen Carn, regardless of the war. He never should have—

“ _Geralt_ ,” she said triumphantly.

His thoughts shattered magnificently apart.

“...What?”

She paced toward him, a wild thing stalking its prey.

“I _saw_ ,” she stabbed a finger at him, not quite touching him in the chest. “I saw the way you looked at him. That’s your secret, isn’t it? _That’s_ what you’ve been hiding.”

Regis’s lips fell open.

_Oh, shit._

He hadn’t noticed her there during the incident, and evidently neither had Geralt—she’d probably been just up the hill, peering down at the both of them, exultant in her discovery—but if anyone could even come close to sneaking up on him, it would be Milva. And it wasn’t as though he hadn’t been somewhat distracted.

And… she was right.

It _was_ his secret. _A_ secret, anyway.

He’d been furiously denying it to himself, the nascent warmth in his breast that flared when he was around Geralt, the draw he felt to the man… Or, if he hadn’t dismissed it outright, he’d sought to cast it in an academic light, another experiment: could a witcher stop being a witcher? It was a droll curiosity in light of his vampiric nature and no more.

He found it hard to maintain such a defense, to fashion himself the ascetic scientist seeking knowledge—not when all his cold calculations had been burnt away in the light and heat of this increasingly insatiable need.

It was shameful, and inconvenient, and damned confusing to him, and he wasn’t sure what aspect of it he disliked more.

But wishing it away wouldn’t make it so, and now, with Milva gloating before him, he was at an impasse.

He was going to have to admit it not just to himself, but to her.

He didn’t really have a choice. It was that, or engage in yet another round of awkward dissembling and denials, which would only further arouse her suspicion, only drive her to study him more closely. She’d follow him in his figurative shadow and eventually see he was missing a literal one.

He had to sacrifice one secret to keep another safe for a little while longer.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely.

Milva looked momentarily shocked, and at first he wasn’t sure if it was the nature of his desire—he knew humans weren’t entirely warm to the concept of love between individuals of the same gender—but he suspected it may simply have been that she expected to have to work harder to wheedle the confession out of him.

“Huh,” she said at length, eventually shrugging. “Well, can’t say as I blame you. It’s not like I haven’t… glanced in his general direction before,” she smiled at Regis conspiratorially. “He’s quite an eyeful, after all.”

He felt his breathing ease and his pulse settle some as she eased into this new familiarity with him, and he knew he’d made the right choice, for now at least. But as always, that didn’t mean he liked the price he had to pay for his privacy. 

“Gods.” She snorted. “ _I_ should have thought of fucking a witcher. Then I wouldn’t be…”

She gestured vaguely to her midsection in frustration.

“What did you two talk about? When he was all…” She rocked on the balls on her feet and let her eyebrows did a little innuendo-filled hop. “You talked for an _awfully_ long time.”

She… wasn’t wrong.

If it had been _anyone_ else—anyone at all, human or vampire—Regis might have made the assumption that he was being courted.

But ultimately it was unthinkable. He didn’t know how a witcher wore seduction, true enough, but… no, there was simply no way Geralt felt the way he did.

“Nothing of consequence,” he answered brusquely.

“I’m sure,” she agreed, expending no effort in sounding like she meant it. She squinted at him, making a deeper study of his expression. “What would you do, barber? If he looked back at you that way?”

The cold, clammy chill hanging in Regis’s rib cage finally dissipated, giving way to a flash of heat, fueled by indignation.

“Milva, for _gods’_ sake,” he said darkly, “I told you I wouldn’t inform anyone about your… condition until you were ready. There’s no need to be _unkind_."

She looked… genuinely surprised at his anger.

“I wasn’t—”

“Please: stop, I beg you.”

He breathed deeply, trying to extend her as much charity as he could find within. Maybe she _hadn’t_ meant it as cruelty—but that didn’t make situation any less cruel.

Even if it _was_ flirting—and he was reticent to allow himself to play with such a dangerous fantasy, for even a moment—there was no way he could possibly respond to it. Not under false pretenses.

Sins of omission were still sins, and rather egregious ones when they came to the heart of what one _was_.

So much could change in the space of a few moments, the unfolding of a few actions: the glimmer of moonlight off a fang, the sound of a sharpening claw… He didn’t know how it would happen, exactly, but it would. That, or he would take his leave of them before it did.

No, Geralt didn’t look on him with desire, and even the way the witcher viewed him now, with a sort of trusting incomprehension… it wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ —last.

“Fine,” she conceded, folding her arms across her chest defensively. “It’s not nice, when people go poking around in your business, is it? Even if they want the best for you. It’s still… uncomfortable.”

“Your point has been thoroughly and truly made,” he informed her flatly.

She sighed. “I won’t tell him, all right? Not unless you decide to.”

He shook his head repeatedly for emphasis. “That’s an impossibility.”

She waited for him to still again, and then gave him another smile—this one luminous with tenderness.

He knew well how comforting it could be to solve another’s problem in lieu of facing your own; he was glad to gift her with the diversion, even if he hated being the object of her resourcefulness.

“He’s a witcher,” she said softly. “He’s not like us mere mortals. He might surprise you.”

The _'us'_ didn’t escape his notice—in fact, he felt his throat constrict quite suddenly in response.

Regis glanced in the direction of their group. “He is... rather different, isn’t he?"

( _Damn_ the hopeful note in his voice. Damn it to every hell.)

Milva _grinned_.

“Goddess, look at your _face_. You’re bloody _smitten_. Tell you what, you can have what’s left of my share of your mandrake.” She winked at him. “Liquid courage, aye?”

Regis shuddered.

“I appreciate your encouragement,” he said cautiously, observing the dead leaves and moldering bark at their feet. “But I think I’ll abstain. From. Everything.”

“Regis.” Milva pursed her lips. “I know you may not want to listen to me, seeing as _my_ decisions have left me some… issues to deal with… But.”

Regis found himself pulled back to her gaze, then, wanting to interrupt her, to explain that that wasn’t the source of his hesitancy at all—

(—he thought for a hysterical moment of marching up to Geralt and saying, _I’m a vampire and I’m alarmingly enamored of you_ , and wondered which of those confessions was more likely to place him in an earth-covered box for another fifty years—)

—but she placed a hand on his shoulder—the first time he could recall her deliberately touching him in such a familiar way—sweeping her thumb back and forth comfortingly.

“Life is short,” she told him, the advice weighty with both gentleness and the gravity of a lesson learned too well, too soon. “Don't let all your chances pass you by.”

He tried to release the tense lines in his forehead, to give her a positive reception of her affection. He didn’t agree with all of her sentiment, but the warmth behind it was certainly felt.

“I’ll, ah, 'have a think on it first,’” he promised her.

“Quick as you like,” she smiled again, patting him on the shoulder. “C’mon, they’ll be missing us, the ignorant bastards,” she said, sounding a little envious of their obliviousness.

He knew just how she felt.

They headed back to join the others.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has [a blog post on Tumblr](http://asparrowsfall.tumblr.com/post/167474467792/fic-that-which-we-conceal) if you'd like to reblog it.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Kudos are love, comments are life!


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